The Bourne Deception - By Robert Ludlum & Eric van Lustbader Page 0,37

been so foolish to think that his past was dead and buried when, even here in a remote corner of the world, it existed like an egg waiting to hatch? Another piece of his past, another death. Why was he always entwined with loss of life?

He continued to stare down the three steep staircases with the undulating dragon banisters. He tried to remember that day: if he’d rushed to this spot, if the woman was already a bloody heap far away as he flew down the steps. He strained to recall anything about the incident, but his mind was enclosed by a gray fog, thick as the stone dragons, fierce and implacable guardians of the temple. Was the fog protecting him from the terrible event here?

The pain in his chest, his constant companion in the aftermath of the shooting, accelerated, spreading out into his entire torso.

His face must have gone gray because Suparwita said, “This way.”

They made their way from the lintel, from the chasm of the past, and walked back onto the temple plaza and into the cool shade of a towering wall into which was carved an army of demons being opposed by the local dragon spirits.

Bourne sat and drank water. The healer stood, hands folded together, waiting patiently. Bourne was reminded of what he liked so much about Moira—no fussing, no coddling, just no-nonsense responses.

At length, Suparwita said, “You came because of Holly. She’d heard about me, I suppose.”

As he breathed into the pain, taking long, deep, controlled breaths, he said, “Tell me what happened.”

“There was a shadow over her, as if she’d brought something horrible with her.” Suparwita’s liquid eyes rested gently on Bourne’s face. “She’d always been placid, she said. No, that’s the wrong word—lacking in affect, that’s better. But now she was terrified. She was up at night, she started at loud noises, she bit her nails to the quick. She told me that she never sat near windows. When you went to a restaurant she’d insist on a table in the rear, where she could look out at the rest of the room. Then you said that even in the shadows, you could see that her hands shook. She’d tried to hide it by holding her glass in a death grip, but you would see it when she reached for a fork or pushed her plate away.”

The soft thrum of an airplane engine could be heard briefly interrupting the bird chatter. Then all was still again. On an adjacent mountainside, thin streamers of smoke rose from the burn-off fires at the periphery of the rice paddies.

Bourne gathered himself. “Perhaps she had somehow come un-hinged.”

The healer nodded uncertainly. “Possibly. But I can tell you that her terror came from a real source. I think you knew that, too, because you weren’t humoring her, you were trying your best to help her.”

“So she could have been running from something or someone. What happened next?”

“I cleansed her,” Suparwita said. “She was entangled with demons.”

“Yet she died.”

“And so did you—almost.”

Bourne thought about Moira’s insistence that they see the healer; he thought about Suparwita saying, “All this has happened before, and it will happen again.” Death following on the heels of life. “Are you saying that the two incidents are somehow connected?”

“That wouldn’t be credible.” Suparwita sat beside him. “But Shiva was here then, and Shiva is here now. We ignore these signs at our peril.”

He was the last patient Benjamin Firth was scheduled to see that day. He was a tall, cadaverously thin New Zealander, with yellow skin and feverish eyes. He wasn’t from Manggis or any of the surrounding villages—a small enough area—because Firth knew them all. Yet he seemed familiar and when he gave his name as Ian Bowles, Firth recalled him coming in twice or three times over the past several months with massive migraines. Today he complained of stomach and bowel problems, so Firth had him lie down on the examining table.

As he took his vitals, he said, “How’re your migraines?”

“Fine,” Bowles said absently, and then in a more focused tone, “Better.”

After palpating his stomach and abdomen, Firth said, “I can’t find anything wrong with you. I’ll just do a blood workup and in a couple of days—”

“I require information,” Bowles said softly.

Firth stood very still. “I beg your pardon.”

Bowles stared up at the ceiling as if deciphering the shifting patterns of light. “Forget the vampire tactics, I’m right as rain.”

The doctor shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Bowles sighed. Then sat up so